


Wraith

by tehfanglyfish



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Deviates From Canon, Episode: s01e09 Excalibur, M/M, Past Uther/Ygraine - Freeform, of a sort, vengeful spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehfanglyfish/pseuds/tehfanglyfish
Summary: Uther is confronted by a ghost from his past, while Arthur faces the future with Merlin at his side.Written for 2020 Merlin Canon Fest - Episode 01x09: Excalibur
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Ygraine de Bois/Uther Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 197
Collections: Merlin Canon 2020





	Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the lovely mods for hosting this fest yet again. It’s loads of fun!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Do not post my work to any other websites.

It was strange, the sensation of being recalled from the spirit realm, forced inside of a body, learning again how to maneuver it after twenty years of being free from the confines of corporeal existence.

Arms and legs were cumbersome enough when compared to disembodied weightlessness, but this body in particular proved especially challenging to wield, as it hadn’t aged well in the two decades since life left it. Adding on armor only complicated matters further, and it took some time stumbling about the confines of the castle crypt to relearn the movements that had come so easily all those years before.

Still, even without the sorceress’s magic now flowing through the reanimated body to aid in its movement, the pressing need for vengeance would have been powerful enough to accomplish the task at hand. Which wasn’t to say that magic hadn’t been helpful – it had been satisfying to burst through the window of the castle’s great hall atop an enchanted horse.

There was the petty satisfaction that came with making the crowd of minor nobles, a spineless assortment of sniveling bootlickers, flee, as the dramatic entrance interrupted the ceremony Uther had been conducting. The man had always prided himself on image – the rage he likely felt at having his pageantry interrupted was simply an added bonus to the prize that would soon be had. Well, if things would start going according to plan.

“Single combat. Noon tomorrow. To the death.”

The words echoed through the hall as the gauntlet, intended for Uther, clattered against the stone floor, not quite reaching its destination. Even if Arthur hadn’t been standing in the way, throwing with accuracy proved difficult thanks to unwieldy arms.

Before Uther could react, Arthur began to move, his hand outstretched. That would not do. This was meant to be a reckoning with the father, not the son, though it was fitting for Uther to hide behind another. How to proceed proved tricky. Uther must answer for his misdeeds, but now…

“I, Sir Owain, accept your challenge.”

Owain. The name was unfamiliar, his age the likely reason why. He had that earnest determination so common to young knights, fresh out of adolescence and not yet old enough to have been jaded by the complexities of life. Owain likely saw it as his sacred duty to defend his king, the young fool. It seemed a shame that he should have to die, but at least he’d removed the complication of Arthur accepting the challenge.

⊱ ── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ── ⊰

Time passed differently outside the spirit realm. Standing beneath the starry sky, the night felt endless, yet somehow noon arrived almost immediately.

An assembly of spectators filled the stands to watch the duel. Owain fought well enough, though it was clear from the onset of the fight that he was no match. He could capably deflect, but struggled to land a blow. It was only when he’d been forced to the ground that he found his chance, thrusting his sword upward.

The blade tore through the armor, piercing the body within. There was no pain, no damage, only the chill of cold steel against bone. It wouldn’t matter how many blows Owain landed; no mortal blade could slay this form. And so the fight continued, Owain faltering from exhaustion and desperation, his confidence shattered after his strike failed to even slow his opponent.

Finally, the fight was almost at its end. Owain lay on his back looking up at the sword about to strike him. A piece of red cloth, tied to his arm, fluttered in the breeze. It had significance. What did it mean? It was hard to remember after all this time and yet it seemed important.

Ah, yes. The cloth was a token, a sign that someone cared for Owain. To kill him would not only be snuffing out his young life but also causing another to endure the pain of grief. That was never part of the plan – there had been enough suffering already.

It took immense concentration to seize control of some of the magic imbued by the sorceress, to channel it into the sword, landing a blow on the ground just beside Owain, causing him to lose consciousness. To the observing crowd it would appear he had died, but in three days he would awaken, safe before the customary burial on the fourth.

But that was enough time wasted on Owain. There was still the matter of Uther to see to.

Though Uther sat in a box seat overlooking the pitch, there was no question as to who was meant to take the gauntlet. Had he been standing on the ground, it would have landed at his feet.

“Who will take up my challenge?”

Uther sat stone still until Arthur again made to lunge for the gauntlet. Instead of coming forward as any man of honor would have done, he held Arthur back, waiting for yet another knight to bear his burden.

“I, Sir Pellinor, take up the challenge.”

Were all of Camelot’s knights so foolish that they were willing to die for a brutal tyrant? Uther had always been loose with calling his knights cowards. Was that what caused Pellinor to step forward? Fear of a label that was nothing more than a manipulation tactic used by the powerful to compel others to go against their own better judgment? What a waste.

“So be it.”

⊱ ── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ── ⊰

Another night spent under an open sky, another pointless duel.

The next day’s fight proved more challenging than the first. Pellinor was slightly older than Owain, and exceeded him in skill. The crowd cheered as he dodged blows and even landed a few of his own.

And yet, despite his efforts to hide it, he hesitated and winced, making it clear to one with a trained eye that he wasn’t fully recovered from a previous battle. And so, as he faltered, taking hit after hit, he suffered. There was no getting around inflicting pain, even with the feigned death at the end. Eventually Uther would run out of others to stand in his place, and when he did, he would pay for this new suffering on top of the old.

As the crowd gasped in response to what appeared to be Pellinor’s death, it was once again time to issue the challenge. Today it must be done properly, with no room for another to step in. Maybe if the gauntlet hit Uther in the face…

“I, Arthur Pendragon, challenge you.”

Well, that answered the question of whether or not Arthur took after his father. It was a relief to learn that his heart was more De Bois than Pendragon, though it would have been better if that discovery could have waited for a more convenient time.

No harm could come to Arthur – that much was certain. The best way to keep him safe would be to back down, to reject the challenge. But that would arouse suspicion and forfeit the right to eventually duel Uther.

There was always the option of repeating the same trick that had been used with Owain and Pellinor. Arthur was strong and healthy – taking a few convincing blows and falling into the trance of a feigned death probably wouldn’t leave him permanently harmed, at least not physically. What it would do to his reputation, though, was another matter.

The people might admire his bravery, but would they view him as worthy of the throne? Would rising from the dead cause them to celebrate his survival or question his fitness? Would they believe the resurrected Arthur was their golden prince returned to them or a corrupted wraith seizing power? Using the trance was a major gamble, the outcome too uncertain.

Of course, the whole endeavor could be ended right here and now with a surprise attack on the king. It was tempting, the urge to slay him before the assembled onlookers. But that wouldn’t do, either. He’d be remembered as a martyr and Arthur would likely try something foolish, like avenging his father’s death. No, this thing had to follow the rules of the knights’ code. It was frustrating the degree to which the ridiculous rituals of the living dictated the course of things.

“So be it.”

“Single combat. Noon. Tomorrow.”

Arthur’s voice was heavy with emotion – anger, yes, but also sorrow for Pellinor, and no trace of the fear he must be feeling. He already had the makings of a great king, even if he was still very young. Of course he would need guidance and support. Gaius could help, maybe Geoffrey, sharing their wisdom that came with age. On their worst day, they would prove better mentors than Uther.

But would two old men be enough to keep Arthur’s heart from growing bitter, to stave off the self-centered ambition that had defined his father? Only time would tell.

For now, the more pressing matter was how to satisfy his challenge while keeping him safe. At least there was some time to sort things. They weren’t set to meet until the next day. Perhaps an answer would come before dawn.

⊱ ── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ── ⊰

Among the few benefits brought by death was the fact that one no longer needed to eat or drink or sleep. That freed up hours for contemplation not afforded to the living.

The ground below the royal residences seemed the perfect place to pass the time. It was familiar, after all, a place where happy memories had been forged years ago, when Camelot’s young queen and her brother had wandered the castle grounds on lazy afternoons. Before Uther’s obsession with continuing his family line ripped them apart.

Besides, this vantage point was in direct line of sight from the king’s chambers. Even if Uther was too cowardly to peer out, knowing that his opponent was waiting for him below would be enough to torment him until dawn.

Hours passed, the sun slowly setting. As dusk became night, the question of what to do about Arthur remained. Would Uther allow his only son to face what appeared to be certain death? It was hard to say. Somewhere in his heart, there had to be a modicum of genuine love for Arthur and a desire to see a Pendragon succeed him on the throne. But Uther had always been one to value his own survival over all else – the fate of his queen was evidence enough of that.

This line of thought might have gone on uninterrupted until sunrise had it not been for the fire. The circle of flame posed no threat; there were enchantments in place to make sure of that. Yet even with the shield charms, some of the heat broke through, slightly singeing the fabric of the tabard the wraith wore, making the armor underneath uncomfortably hot.

That shouldn’t have been able to happen, not with ordinary flame. But then, there was something different about this fire.

A glance in the direction it originated from revealed a tall, slender figure, about Arthur’s age judging by his looks. He’d been at Arthur’s side earlier that day, though his clothes made it clear that he was not from a noble family. A servant perhaps?

Had his hand not been outstretched in the manner typical of a caster, the golden light in his eyes might have been mistaken as a reflection of the flames that were beginning to die down.

This ridiculous, big-eared fool knew magic, powerful magic, and was willing to risk exposing himself, putting his life in danger in more ways than one. Why? There was something in the dissipating ring of fire that went beyond sorcery… there was… love.

It was pure and unconditional, the unexpected solution to both how to keep Arthur safe in the present and how to protect his heart and ward off bitterness in the years to come.

Even with the ring of fire gone, the servant-sorcerer stood defiant, refusing to run or look away despite the danger.

“You’ll not hurt him,” he said, voice surprisingly steady. “I won’t let you. You can fight me instead or…”

“Drug him.”

“What?”

“You wish to keep Arthur safe?”

“Yes.”

“Then drug him. Make sure he falls into a deep slumber that won’t break until after noon. Gaius will know the correct herbs to use.”

“But…”

“I rose from my grave to seek vengeance against Uther, not his son. Keep Arthur away from the fight tomorrow and I’ll make sure the king can no longer hide behind another.”

The young man considered this for a moment, then nodded before turning to hurry back to the castle entrance.

Perhaps it was wrong to deny Arthur the chance to satisfy honor, but this had never been his fight. He would be angry, yes, but he would be safe and this unpleasant business could be concluded once and for all.

And now, with the matter of Arthur sorted, there was nothing to do but wait and enjoy one final sunrise.

⊱ ── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ── ⊰

Another day, another duel. The final one, thank the goddess.

The people in the stands had whispered loudly among themselves when Uther stepped into the tournament arena, decked out in full armor, save for the helmet tucked under his arm.

“You can have what you came for. The father, not the son.”

It was forced bravado, Uther’s fear betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice, undiscernible to all except those who knew him well.

Good. Let him be afraid. It was fitting after all the horrific things he’d done, the lives brutally cut short, the friends and families torn apart.

One had to admit that he fought well, his footwork more solid than either Owain’s or Pellinor’s. Had the battle taken place decades earlier, the outcome might not have been completely certain, even with the power of the sorceress’s magic reanimating this body. Uther had been so impressive in his youth, a dashing knight whose prowess with a sword had won him many a tournament, as well as the heart of a young woman who failed to notice the cold malevolence he kept carefully concealed until it was too late.

Cheers erupted from the crowd as Uther successfully landed a handful of blows, affording him a few final moments of glory before the inevitable end. Was it cruel to toy with him, to give him the illusion of false hope that he might actually prevail in this fight?

Perhaps. But it no longer mattered. The time had come to end the spectacle and right old wrongs.

Uther’s footwork faltered as he faced a new onslaught of blows, levied at him with a renewed determination, fueled by rage and vengeance and justice. It didn’t take long to have him sprawled on his back, his sword out of reach. Looking up at the blade raised high overhead, terror started to fill his eyes.

All that was left was to strip off the helmet before delivering the killing blow; it was vital that Uther Pendragon know exactly who was sending him to hell.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, then fell silent. The color drained from Uther’s face as he stared at the figure about to dispatch him. Others were likely reeling from the horror of seeing the wraith exposed, but there was no way Uther couldn’t recognize who the body had belonged to when it still had life.

“Father!” Arthur’s voice rang out just before the sword delivered the killing blow.

He half-ran, half-staggered toward the arena, clearly still recovering from whatever concoction Gaius had given him.

“Go back inside, Arthur. You don’t need to see this.”

“She’s right, Arthur,” Uther called from where he lay on the ground. “Listen to your mother.”

“Mother?”

He stopped in his tracks, enabling the young man who’d cast the flames the previous night to catch up, draping Arthur’s arm across his shoulder so that he could support Arthur’s body. As he wrapped his own arm around Arthur’s waist, it was impossible not to notice the way Arthur leaned into him with a familiarity that suggested this wasn’t the first time they’d shared an embrace. Arthur would mourn the loss of his father, but he would be all right, of that Ygraine had no doubt.

“Arthur.” It was hard to know what to say. Ygraine had been prepared to face down Uther’s wrath and hatred, not her son staring at her with tears starting to spill.

“I’m sorry.” His whisper was so anguished that Ygraine wished she could take him in her arms. Fortunately, the man at his side was hugging him tight.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“It was my birth that caused you to die.”

“No. Never. You’re not to blame.”

“I am.” Overwhelmed at the sight of her son, Ygraine had almost forgotten that Uther lay at her feet. “It was my fault your mother died. I was so desperate for an heir that I made a deal with a sorceress that cost Ygraine her life.”

“A sorceress?”

“You were born of magic, Arthur,” Ygraine explained, “but you were also born of love. Sometimes the one cannot be separated from the other.”

The man supporting Arthur turned pale as Ygraine's eyes met his, but he kept his tight hold on her son. So he hadn't shared that secret then. It wasn't her place to divulge it and she had limited time. Still, maybe she could give them both a gentle nudge.

“But magic is…”

“Something your father has lied about for far too long. You must right his wrongs, Arthur. Don’t let bitterness and hatred define your reign the way they did his.”

Uther’s pained cough drew her attention back to where he lay crumpled on the ground at her feet. For so long she’d dreamed of delivering the final blow, but now, with Arthur looking on, vengeance no longer seemed as important as it had when Nimueh first reawakened her.

After a moment’s consideration, Ygraine pulled Uther to his feet.

“I am doing this for our son,” she hissed quietly, “not for you. He’s witnessed enough violence because of you.”

Glancing at her vice-like grip on his arm, Uther appeared to work out what Ygraine intended to do, straightening his body to stand as tall as his injuries would allow.

That was a relief. He wasn’t going to make a scene. Still, just to be safe, Ygraine activated the talisman Nimueh had given her. A smoky portal began to swirl, their gateway to the realm of the dead.

“Arthur, you’re young, but you’re already wiser and kinder than I have ever been. Camelot will thrive under your reign. And while I haven’t said it nearly enough, I love you and I’m proud of you.”

As Uther spoke, Arthur stumbled forward, still clinging to the man at his side, dragging him along with him.

“Hurry up, Merlin. He’s about to…”

Before Arthur could reach him, Uther stepped through the portal on his own, making his final act as Camelot’s king the best one of his reign.

Ygraine gave her son one last look. He stood in front of her, leaning against Merlin, tears now falling openly and without shame. With his free arm, he reached for her, not seeming to care about her wraith’s body.

“When I last held you, you were a tiny baby,” she told Arthur, hugging him back. “I remember your eyes. You were staring up at me. Those few seconds I held you were the most precious of my life. And now to be able to hold you once more…”

Recognizing that she’d never get the chance again, Ygraine pulled Merlin into the hug, squeezing them both as long as she could until the portal began to close.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping back, “but Arthur, you should know, already there is magic in the heart of Camelot. Cherish it.”

Then she turned and stepped through the portal, confident that her son and his realm were in good hands.


End file.
